The Lowest Point
by Miirkaelisaar
Summary: Of course we know who's Top Dog in Gotham. Batman. Beneath him, the villains he battles reign over the frightened civilians. But under still, the pit of Gotham, the abyss, the epitome of worthlessness, the minion. The lowest point of rank in Gotham.
1. Chapter 1: Alone

Chapter1-Alone

_It was a cold feeling._

_A dark feeling._

_A lonely feeling._

_Then… there was no feeling…_

Three hours earlier…

"It's going to rain, hon! Please wear your jacket!" Heather Spinner caught her son before he reached the curb. The boy spun around.

"Mom, I really don't-" He sighed. "Alright. You worry too much, Mom." He smiled. It was a warm, innocent smile. And one no one he knew would ever see again. He turned and ran toward the street again.

"Jack!" She cried out after him, and he spun about again, harassed.

"Yeah?"

"I love you, darling!" She smiled warmly at him, and he felt guilty.

"I love you, too, Mom." He grinned, and left.

It was past nightfall when Jack realized he should be getting home. He disentangled himself from the shopping cart and leapt to his feet. "I gotta go, guys!"

"Dude, come back tomorrow! Ron thinks he can beat Skylar down the Slope!" One of the boys called out jovially.

"Aw, c'mon," Jack grinned, not convinced. "No one beats Skylar! She's the champ!"

"I'm just the messenger!"

"Well, anyhow, I gotta go now…" He turned and ran back to the dilapidated jumble of apartment buildings. He wove through a crowd of bums, beggars, and vagrants without blinking. He dashed up the steps and into his apartment.

"Mom?" He called before he reached the door. He felt something was wrong. The door was ajar. "Mom…?" He asked, nervously, pushing the door open tentatively. No one was there. He went to the "kitchen", if you could call it that. A counter with a shelf over it, a mini-fridge and a microwave on a table next to it. A note was on the counter.

_Jack,_

_Forgot I needed to talk to Emily. I shouldn't be long. _

_Love,_

_Mommy_

He sighed. Of course. She had to go talk to Emily, in the apartment building behind theirs. She must have been in a hurry and left the door open. He decided to go over and walk her back home. Gotham was a deadly place at night. He made sure the door was shut tight before stealing away.

"She left about ten minutes ago, Jacky," Kevin, Emily's husband shrugged. "You must have passed her, or she went around the other way."

"Well, thanks anyway, Kevin. Tell Emily and Clay I said 'Hi'." He went back to the street. He glanced around and went the other way around the buildings. It had begun to rain. Glad his mother had forced him to bring it, Jack pulled his jacket's hood up over his head. He sighed as a clap of thunder ripped the air. His head snapped up.

The thunder wasn't alone.

The scream was unmistakably a woman's, and horrifyingly familiar. Adrenaline pulsing like ice through his veins, Jack tore down the street and turned into the alley. He ran through the maze, following two more screams, desperate to get there before it was too late.

He stopped suddenly, crashing into a trash can and alerting the mugger, who dashed away. All Jack saw was his face and neck, the latter of which was marked with a distinct tattoo of Black Widow spider. The man fled, and Jack started after him, but stopped and knelt by the victim's side.

"I'm sorry, Mom." Jack held her head in his lap, stroking her wet, but still beautiful blonde hair, so strikingly different from his own, which was pitch-black. She breathed shallowly. Ignoring the blood trickling down her face, she smiled and reached up a hand to his cheek.

"Take care of yourself, Jacky, baby. Don't let anyone hurt you, you hear me? Anyone…" She grimaced in pain and gasped, bringing tears to Jack's eyes. He was in shock. He didn't know what to feel. "P-promise me… You won't ever, ever grow up to hurt people."

"I promise." He swallowed, ignoring the sharp pain in his chest, as her hand fell to the ground and she died. He was alone. He felt a new feeling, one he'd never known.

_It was a cold feeling._

_A dark feeling._

_A lonely feeling…_

"Tsk tsk tsk. Aw, ya poor thing…" He paid no attention to the voice. A woman stepped from the shadows, sympathy plain in her features. "C'mon, Puddin'. Come on home with Harley." She reached out to him. He saw a red sleeve and a black glove. He looked into her face. Painted white and masked, with a red and black Jester hat. Such a youthful, innocent face. He trusted her. He took her hand.

"There ya go, Puddin'. An' don't worry yer cute little head. The police are almost hear to get her. You don't have ta cry. It wasn't until she said it that he even knew he was crying. He didn't even have the strength to lift his hand and wipe the tears away.

_Then… there was no feeling._


	2. Chapter 2: Cold

_**A/N and Disclaimer: I only have rights to Jack Spinner, no one else, though my Joker is somewhat and original mixture of many. He's like Heath Joker, but more classy, better makeup, and no scars... yet, we'll see about maybe having that happen. WARNING! For whom it may concern or who mat be concerned: This fanfic is going to be filled with CHILD ABUSE! Anyone who does not want to witniss this, please turn back now! There will be scenes in which children die or are very near death - usually the main character. PLEASE READ AND BE ADVISED BEFORE CONTINUING! THANK YOU AND PLEASE LEAVE REVIEWS!**_

Jack woke with a start, looking around at the hazardous heap of the dilapidated Funhouse that was his home. He felt pain shoot through him and groaned. He'd fallen off the rotting, moth-eaten couch and hit the concrete floor. He disentangled himself from the dirty sheets he slept in and sat down, sighing.

He stood again and went to a smashed, boarded window and peered through the gaps. The sky was still dark, but a little light was creeping into it; it was full of clouds. Jack shuddered, looking at the empty, broken rides, the ancient carnival litter that still blew aimlessly across the ground.

He turned and headed to the "kitchen". This was a few wooden crates stacked into a "counter", and a couple more to sit on. There was no point in having a place to sit to eat, though, because the "cupboards", a few wooden boxes stacked on their sides, were always empty. There was no refrigerator. The only thing to drink was water, from the somehow still-functioning spigot outside. But now in winter, when it froze over, dehydration was inescapable. He sat down at the "counter" and brooded. Besides the little couch he slept on, all there was inside the fun house were an assortment of broken vehicles, failed weapons, and empty money-bags. Jack dropped his head onto the wooden crates.

Living with the Joker was the hardest thing in the world to do. And Jack knew a little something about managing the impossible, too. If a sixteen-year-old handling a Tommy gun right after blowing up a bank and right before hotwiring an escape vehicle wasn't impossible, well, keeping your head in the Joker's "house" was.

Batman didn't know the half of what a psycho Joker was. The man robbed banks perpetually, and blew all the loot on weapons and traps that never worked. Behind the Clown Prince's back, he referred to Joker's habits as "Wily-Coyote Spending" - a useless waste of cash, to be blunt. Jack found himself more and more frequently dumpster-diving for food. He stood up, figuring that was what he'd go do now.

He looked for something to put on. He only wore shredded jeans, fingerless gloves, and a sweatshirt. It was early December, and below freezing in Gotham. Unable to find a coat, he sighed and prepared to leave. He went to the couch and tried to pull on his shoes, which were too small for him now, and full of holes. When he tugged on his left shoe, the sole separated from the body (If you didn't laugh at that, go die. Just kidding!) and he cursed, throwing the shoe across the room, where it hit the wall next to the door.

No sooner had the shoe bounced off of the doorjamb and flown off to the side, than the door opened. Jack moved behind the couch, so it was between him and the door, and clutched the back, his chapped knuckles turning bone-white in contrast to the rough, dark forest-green corduroy.

He stood stock-still when Joker entered the room through the creaking door, attached to the jamb by only one hinge. A blast of freezing air followed him. He shut the door, kicking it to close it all the way. He was muttering agitatedly to himself. If Joker's spending and radical plans weren't enough to convince the average Joe the man was off his rocker, his temper sure as Hell was. Jack tried not to move, or even blink. It was always the tiniest things that set Joker off when he was in a bad mood. On the other hand, when his day went alright, Joker was a pretty cool guy.

Joker's eyes locked on Jack's. They were bloodshot and wild. He took a step toward Jack, who instantly looked away, staring at the floor as if it were talking to him. Joker seemed satisfied for a moment. He cleared his throat. "Where's Harley?" He growled. The chilly air had made his throat raw.

Jack shuddered. "I... I don't know, sir." He saw her leave in the middle of the night, all dressed up, but he'd never rat out Party Girl. She was the only person in this Hellhole that treated him decent. "I haven't seen her."

Joker's eyebrows knit together. "Are you lying to me?" He asked, walking toward the boy. "Are you hiding something?"

How the hell could he _always_ tell? "No, sir." His voice trembled as the Joker stopped on the other side of the couch. His mind wanted to run, but his legs wanted to collapse. He stood there, clutching the sofa to keep from doing just that.

Joker searched the kid's expression. Satisfied, he turned away. "Go get her."

"Harley?" Jack raised his eyebrows. He had no idea where Harley was.

"No, you idiot! Were you listening last night?" He rounded on Jack, who cowered. "I told you both I was going to kill the District Attorney's daughter! Are you deaf? Or do you just think you can ignore me and get away with it?" His anger finally breaking through his logic, as it was apt to do after a night of restless fighting, he backhanded Jack across the face. The boy didn't brace himself. He'd found over time that if he went limp, it would hurt less. He hit the concrete and cried out, but cut off his cry for fear of agitating the villain further. He took deep breaths, fighting to keep from sobbing. He never cried on the first strike.

"Get up." Joker's voice was quiet and cold. Then he hissed. "Get up!"Jack struggled to stand. He was dizzy. His head had hit the floor. He stood, shaking, waiting for the next blow, but it never came. Joker's face was the epitome of hate and frustration. He pointed to the door in a quick jerk that made Jack whimper. "Go get the body out of the trunk of my car, you stupid failure! Now!" Jack dashed to the door and flew outside. He didn't stop until he got to Joker's car, a beat-up, bullet-riddled, piece of garbage. He fell to his knees behind the car, shaking and gasping. After he stopped shaking, Jack stood up and pried the trunk open, wincing and expecting to find the lacerated body of a young girl.

He screamed when the wooden Jack-In-The-Box head shot toward his face, falling backward onto the frozen ground in his surprise. His hands, had he not had the gloves, would have been ripped apart on the cold gravel. As it was, his left elbow was, instead. He fought to calm his breathing, glaring at the still-bobbling jester head.

"HA HA HA HA HA!" Loud, mocking laughter rang out. Jack looked at the Funhouse, bewildered to see Joker standing in the doorway, holding his sides and laughing at him. "You stupid retard! I never said I was gonna kill some little girl! God, you're gullible!" He laughed again, shaking his head, and went back into the building, his laughter still audible.

Jack cursed and stood up. He turned and stormed from the park, livid. He made his way into the heart of Gotham. Luck found him in a dumpster behind a fast-food place that the other vagrants of the city hadn't raided yet. He found a half-eaten burger and ate it without a hint of dislike.

Spotting a hobo coming down the alley, Jack grabbed another half-unwrapped sandwich and jumped out of the dumpster, taking off. He finished the second sandwich while he walked, and stopped outside of a circle of squad cars and a crowd of people.

He had arrived just in time to witness Clayface race down an alley with a handful of money bags, impervious to the bullets that flew at him. Jack sighed, unimpressed. He spent most of the day strolling around, watching the people he wanted to join. The sun went down and the Bat Signal went up - Jack's cue to go home.

He dragged his feet, fearing the moment he had to step foot on Joker's property again. He shivered in the icy gale that started up suddenly, blowing in like a tempest from Gotham Harbor. He stopped as he entered and punched the Jack-In-The-Box head as he passed it. He grabbed it as it flopped around and wrenched it off the spring. He chucked it as far as he could toward the Ferris Wheel. He heard it bounce off something and turned around into someone's chest. He cried out and jumped back.

"Don't break my toys, Jacko!" Joker grinned maliciously. "Where have you been young man? I had to rob a bank and I was short one sniveling crybaby!" He mocked. Jack forced his face to remain plain as he skirted Joker and entered the Funhouse. He sat down on his couch and watched Joker stop in the doorway and turn, having seen or heard someone outside. "Why, there you are!" He shouted jovially. "I'd thought you'd gone off and found yourself a new Mister J!"

Harley appeared in the doorway, throwing her arms around Joker's neck. "Hoya Puddin'!" She squealed. She waved to Jack, who instantly plastered a grin on his face. "Hey, little buddy! How was your day, sugah?"

"It was great." Jack answered in a monotone. What could his day have possibly been? It's not like villains, let alone their minions, got an "A" on a test or a promotion or won the lottery. No, his day was the same day every day. No escape from the Hell he was shackled in.

Jack listened to Harley tell Jack about her day ripping off department stores until the two of them went upstairs, where there were two rooms used for the Funhouse controls once upon a time, which Harley and Joker had fashioned into bedrooms, where they slept.

He sighed and lay down, pulling the less-than-sufficient sheets over himself. He was freezing. He was always freezing, though. The life of a low-life was a cold one.

_A cold feeling…_


	3. Chapter 3: Broken

It was freezing out. Maybe fifty degrees below zero, and Jack still had no shoes. He wouldn't until he stole some. It didn't bother him. He didn't mind the cold as much as the yelling. He didn't know what they were arguing about, but when Harley suddenly burst out the front door next to him and stormed away from the fairgrounds, Jack knew it was time to leave. Unfortunately, Joker was a step ahead of him.

"Jack! Get the fuck in here!"

Jack felt the words hit him like a crowbar to the head, something he'd actually felt before, a few times now. He wanted to pretend he hadn't heard him and just leave, but Joker knew when he was unheard and when he was being ignored. He read people like books, though he himself was an inky smudge. Jack whimpered to himself and turned to go in through the doorway. The door was completely detached - Harley's fault - and lay in the snow.

"Y-yeah?" Jack stepped into the room tentatively.

"What?" Joker sneered at him. "'Yeah'? 'Yeah'?! You know how to address me, you stupid son-of-a-bitch!" He advanced on Jack. As it has been mentioned earlier, it was the little things.

Jack knew exactly how to cower. He'd learned over the years… how many now? Three? Four? He'd learned that if he stood his ground, obviously, he got cold-cocked, but if he curled up, he got kicked repeatedly. He found that if he flinched, to show submission, he wouldn't get hit as hard, and if he remained standing, and the first blow brought him down, it wasn't always followed by more.

This was one of the many exceptions. Today, though the sun was barely up yet, The Joker was stumbling drunk.

"That's 'Yes, sir' to you, brat!" Joker roared, grabbing Jack by the collar. The boy whimpered and he grabbed him by the hair, instead, throwing him out the door and into the snow. "You got that?!"

"Y-yes, sir!" Jack stammered, tears already falling. He ignored the snow burning his skin and stood up quickly. He knew if he stayed on the ground, Joker would be mad again. But, he'd forgotten that if you stand up in front of drunk-off-his-ass-Joker, he thought you wanted to fight. A fist to the jaw reminded him quickly.

A few kicks to the ribs also reminded him to start checking Joker's room regularly, to see if he'd gotten any more booze lately. He must have gotten a hold of some last night, despite Harley's struggle to dispose of it. This must have been what they were fighting about. He felt a sudden rage toward Harley as he was pulled to his feet by his hair and punched in the stomach. She knew Joker was smashed. And she stormed out. Knowing how Joker beat him when he was sober, she left Jack here while the psycho was plastered.

Jack saw a pause in the beatings and floundered on the ground, trying to get as much of the freezing, wet snow on his injuries as possible. He felt his fingers go numb. It was his head though, and his chest that hurt. Joker dragged Jack out of the snow by his upper arm with a grip so tight, Jack cried out and felt the bruise forming. Joker glared at Jack.

"You little punk!" His words were starting to slur. "Why the hell do I keep you around?! Yer not doin' anything' fer the cause… You jus' sit around an' an' cry! Jus' like yer doin' now!" He continued crushing Jack's arm with a strength Jack found hard to fathom. Not only was the man thin and malnourished as Jack, he was tanked! His arms had to be loose and numb by now, but Jack heard something snap, just a tiny snap, but it hurt like Hell. He'd had enough for first thing in the morning.

"STOP IT! YOU'RE PLASTERED, YOU FUCK!" Joker's hand released Jack, who crumbled in the snow. Jack was mortified he'd gone too far. He was going to die. He stared in wide-eyed horror at the Joker.

The Joker shrugged. "Fine… but I alrea'y know that… ssssshtupid." He murmured, then turned and went back inside as if nothing had happened. Jack stood up. He stared into the dark hole of the doorway. He turned and took a few steps, then spun around, throwing his hands up, though it was pure agony when he did so.

"What the fuck, ma-an?! Wha-at was tha-at?!" His voice cracked several times. He dropped his arms and turned, leaving the fairgrounds. He shouted as he left, his voice high. "You fu-ucking psycho! I hope Ba-atman fucking kills yo-u!" He got to the street and stumbled into Gotham, still seething. He had to walk to the middle of the huge city, as people stared at the homeless kid who looked more fit for a hamburger bun than a bed. He finally found the hospital. Normally, someone in his state would go to the emergency room, but Jack was in no hurry to get home.

"Can I help you?" The receptionist asked, not looking up.

"Uh, ye-ah." His voice cracked again. "Do yo-u have li-ike a really rally big Ba-and-Aid?" He joked, but kept a serious façade. The woman looked up and gaped.

"Oh, my God!" She jumped up and ran around the desk. "Someone get a stretcher! Stat!" She looked at his eyes and started checking him over. He was annoyed.

"Hey, lady… I'm fi-ine." He hissed when she gently prodded his chest, upsetting his broken ribs. "I just need… ice." She stared at him incredulously. Two orderlies suddenly lifted him onto a stretcher, forcing him to lie down. "Hey… hey! What're you do-ing?!" He pulled away, but one of them grabbed his arm. He screamed. "AGH! GOD WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?! CAN'T YOU BE GENTLE?! AS IF THE FUCKING JOKER ISN'T ROUGH ENOUGH!" He saw a flash of silver and cried out, but the needle was suddenly in his arm, and blackness overcame him…


End file.
